Time
by Rosettaston3
Summary: Harry and Ruth; takes place right after Harry walks away from Ruth on the embankment, 9.3. What if Ruth goes after him?  Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own these characters: Kudos does. Ah, but if I did...


Time

They stand in the blustery wind, the Thames on their right, people passing by on either side of them, some clutching shopping bags, others empty-handed, but all hurrying against the cold. He looks directly into her eyes and enunciates each word. "Sometimes, Ruth… you have to give a man a chance. …to show you who he really is."

He turns from her and walks away. She stands there, her eyes squinting against the cold, and for a long moment, stares at his retreating back. "Harry!" Her voice is swallowed up by the wind. She tries again. "Harry!"

She begins to walk rapidly towards him. "Harry!" At last he pauses, but does not turn to face her. She continues to walk towards him. "Harry," she says the final time. Catching up with him, she places her hand on his arm. It is only then that he turns and faces her. He says nothing, his face betraying nothing.

"Please. I …I..need to speak to you."

When he speaks, his tone is as chilly as the weather. "About what?"

She blinks at that. "Harry…I… I….can we ... It's very cold."

He looks down at her raw, bare hand still on his arm. "No gloves," he says. He neither offers her his own gloves, nor places his hand on top of her unprotected one.

"It…doesn't matter," she says.

"What does matter, then?"

She runs her tongue over her lips already beginning to split in the biting wind. They stand there in silence, the cold wind whipping her hair all about her face. He refrains from brushing it away, and actually feels a tentacle of ice forming around his heart, slowly but inexorably, freezing the very blood coursing through it.

"A drink…" she says, and licks her lips again. "I mean….can we talk…someplace… warm?"

"Where?"

She exhales. "God. Harry, you're not making this easy."

At the look of his face, she stops. "I'm sorry…I just…want…I need… to talk to you."

"About what?"

"I think you know …"

He sighs, then. "We've already said everything that needed to be said."

"No…I mean…Please." She shivers and hunches against the cold.

The ice around his heart thaws just a bit, and he says, "The George?"

"Yes, that's fine. Anywhere, really. "

"But not .. my place," he says quietly. The shell of ice around his heart solidifies, then mutates quickly into a stiletto of ice-cold steel. He stands up even straighter against the pain.

Ruth stops. "Your place is… fine, Harry."

"I think not, given the circumstances. But a drink at the George should be harmless enough."

She nods quickly, swallowing her disappointment, and removes her hand from his elbow. In silence, they walk towards the pub. He slows a bit, but it's not quite enough; she remains one step behind him. Reaching the pub, he yanks at the door handle, and holds it open for her. As she steps inside, the warmth flows over her like a benediction.

He glances at her, then. "Tea?"

"A drink. A..a… whiskey."

"Ah," he says, "Dutch courage."

She says nothing, just sits down at the small square table in the back of the near-empty pub. Moments later he returns, placing their drinks on the table, and sits across from her. "Cheers,' he says halfheartedly, lifting his glass to hers. She raises hers to his and their glasses clink, barely.

She sets her glass down.

Harry takes a sip of his, and looks at her untouched drink. "Perhaps tea would have been better after all?"

"No. This is fine. And I don't need…Dutch courage."

"Perhaps not, then." He takes another sip of the amber liquid, willing it to warm his now, he is certain, completely and irrevocably, frozen heart. But his eyes never leave her face.

"Harry."

"Yes?"

"I…need to talk to you."

"So you said." He sips his drink.

"Just give me a chance to …."

"I _am,_ Ruth."

She nods. ". …it's just so…bloody hard."

Almost wearily, he picks up his glass again, now nearly empty.

"I want you in my life," she says, all at once. "And I don't mean just as colleagues."

Harry's glass stops midway. "You better explain what you mean, Ruth, because I was under the distinct impression that was _all _you wanted."

"I know what I said, Harry. But it came out all wrong."

"It seemed fairly straightforward to me," he said, setting his glass down. "You said," and he glances away for a moment before meeting her eyes once more, "that we had forfeited our chance to happiness because of the choices that I had made." He lowers his voice, and looks at her. "The things we've done. Isn't that about right, Ruth?

"I-"

"-And that we could never have a conventional life together because it would be a lie." He reaches for his glass again and takes another sip.

"I did. But it …"

"Have you changed your mind, then?"

She doesn't answer right away.

"Then we have nothing more to say." Quickly, he drains the rest of his drink and begins to adjust his coat over the now familiar ache in his chest.

"No. I mean, yes.. I …for God's sake. You must know that I care for you."

He begins to button his coat.

She becomes very still. "I love you," she says, finally. She looks directly at him, her ice-blue eyes in stark contrast to his own, so very much, she often thinks, like the color of the Thames on overcast days.

His hand rests on the top button of his coat. "In what way? As colleagues? As friends?"

The harshness of his reply startles her, and she answers quickly. "Well, yes. Of course."

He goes back to buttoning his coat, almost savagely. "Right." He says, shoving the last button through the buttonhole. He makes a motion to stand.

"No! I mean….. you don't understand…"

He pushes the chair away from him and stands up.

"Harry! I want more—than just collegial ….love…More than that. Much more."

He rests his hands on the top of the table and leans towards her a bit. "You really need to be…clearer," he says.

"God. Harry. I just said that I love you. How much clearer can that be?"

Harry leans in across the table until she can smell the whiskey on his breath. "Not nearly enough."

Shocked, she stares across at him.

"Do you honestly think, Ruth, that I don't know that you love me? That," he says, as he straightens up, "is what makes this all so bloody frustrating." In seconds, he's standing by her side.

"I'm not trying to frustrate you—or me," she says quietly, still seated, looking up at him.

"Then tell me. Please. What the hell are you -we- doing here, Ruth? What is it that you're really trying to say?"

"I just told you but-"

"Because," he says, slamming his fist on the table, "I'm tired of playing games." She jumps a bit at that; the publican at the bar jerks his head in their direction and stares at them for a long moment before turning his attention back to the lone drinker sitting at the bar.

"I'm not…playing games. I'm not," she says, her eyes riveted on his fist, still pressed against the table. "God. Harry. Are you even listen—"

He drops his voice ominously. "Then spit it out, Ruth. What is it you want? Really want? Because, frankly," he says, breathing heavily, "I can't take much more of this." He lifts his hand from the table and holds it over his visibly heaving chest.

"You." She chokes out. "I want you, Harry. In all ways….not just as …colleagues, but as a woman wants a man."

He grabs her hand. "Then why in God's name are you making this so difficult? "

Tears well up in her eyes. "Because…it's…_been _so…difficult…."

"Why? Because if you love me—"

"I do! You_ know_ I do…"

"And want to be with me, why do you push me away?"

"I don't mean to, I don't. Not really." One tear escapes and begins to fall down her cheek. She swipes at it almost viciously. "It's just… difficult."

"It doesn't have to be," he says, gripping her hand harder. "It doesn't have to be," he says again.

"So much has happened….not just to us," she adds hurriedly, "but to me…personally….I haven't really dealt with…"

He pauses. "I know," he says softly, finally loosening his grip, and placing his other hand on top of hers. "I know. But all the more reason for us not to waste any more time…or hurt ….each other…anymore."

"That's what…I want, too. Harry. But I _need_ …_time_….. to work it out …not my love for you…but for me to be_… whole_….so _we_ can be …whole. And that," she says, "will take time."

"Time," he says. And sighs. "How much ..time?"

"I don't know…Harry. But…but...I do know that I want …need you…I just …" and she starts to cry in earnest now.

"Oh, Ruth." He says, swallowing hard, and places his large hand on her shoulder.

As she sobs, the ache returns to his chest, only this time it's an unfamiliar one, yet surprisingly, not unwelcome.

"Hush," he manages to say. patting her shoulder. "No more, Ruth…no more."

She quiets under his touch, and looks up at him. "I… I'm such a mess right now…but just know that I love you." She places a hand over her own heart and says again, "know that I love you."

He looks at her hand resting over her heart and nods slowly. "What is it that you need me to do, Ruth?" He asks, sotto voce.

"Please. Just…..be patient with me….yes?"

Before he can answer, she clears her throat and when she speaks, it is beautifully, elegantly, articulated. "Because sometimes, Harry, you have to give a woman a chance …to show you what she really wants." Her smile is luminous.

Harry's smile transforms his face. "I can do that, Ruth," he says, drawing her to him. "After all," he adds, his heart beating in perfect rhythm with each word, "timing is everything."

- end-


End file.
